


Cry Wolf

by Anonymous



Category: Original Work, The Boy Who Cried Wolf - Aesop
Genre: Chair Bondage, Dacryphilia, Face Slapping, Face-Fucking, Fairy Tale Retellings, Humiliation, M/M, Non-Consensual Bondage, Non-Consensual Oral Sex, Older Man/Younger Man, Power Imbalance, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rough Oral Sex, Science Fiction, Threats of Violence, Unwilling Arousal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-14
Updated: 2019-04-14
Packaged: 2020-01-13 01:02:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18458258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: A futuristic retelling of 'The Boy Who Cried Wolf'.Finn Holloway is a liar. He's also stuck on a dead-end colony with no real prospects or connections, no family, and his only friends are on the other side of a computer screen. But when he tells an impulsive lie to save his job - one that implicates the richest and most powerful man on Aurexor - it has far-reaching consequences.





	Cry Wolf

**Author's Note:**

  * For [eidetic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/eidetic/gifts).



When he was thirteen, Finn Holloway told everyone at school that his father died.

It was an embarrassingly easy lie – Derek Holloway worked as a supervisor on one of the mining colonies clustered across the asteroid belt, and was gone for months at a time – and within the week, he’d managed to convince everyone in his grade that his father had died a hero in a freak extraction accident. Kids he didn’t know would stop him between classes to say they were sorry, or beg for details, and the rush it gave him was enough to make him forget he still didn’t know why he’d lied at all. This went on for another week, until one of the teachers caught wind and phoned Finn’s mother to confirm. Derek Holloway had, in fact, just returned from a six-month stint on Palos, and upon hearing that he was supposed to be deceased, put his foot through the living room wall. After that, there was quite a lot of shouting. Then crying. Then more shouting.

Overnight, the world had shifted beneath Finn’s feet. Nobody would talk to him, except to hiss _liar_ at him in the halls or make up obviously fake stories about their own families, and his teachers shook their heads whenever they saw him sitting alone at lunch. His mother grounded him for the entirety of mid-year break; his father tanned his hide.

“Nobody likes a liar,” he’d said afterward, while Finn nursed his welts and wept hot, indignant tears. “Maybe that’ll teach you not to go spouting off at the mouth with whatever nonsense comes into your head.”

“Why did you do it, Finny?” his mother had asked him later, on the verge of weeping even as she stroked his hair. She’d sounded bewildered, like she didn’t know who he was anymore. “Why would you tell such an awful lie?”

Finn hadn’t answered. He’d learned two important lessons that day. The first was that he’d misjudged the scope of the lie – it was too big, too easily disproven. Lies that big were too difficult to maintain. The second was not to get caught.

“Sorry, Mom,” he’d said. “I won’t do it again.”

She’d smiled at him, eyes shiny-wet and relieved. He’d smiled back.

Perfect.

**\----------**

The air surrounding him is jungle-thick, clinging to his skin like a desperate lover. Parrots caw throatily in the distance. Sweat trickles down Finn’s spine, his shirt matted to his chest as he creeps forwards, hidden in the lush dapple green of his surroundings. Loam and dead leaves cushion his every step. His rifle is solid, metal warm in his hands. He’s been here a thousand times, but it always feels brand-new: the anticipation in his gut, the hooting of the monkeys and the birdcalls, the river rushing in the distance. He slinks through the underbrush, gun clutched tight in his slick hands until he hears a twig snap from somewhere nearby and flattens himself against a nearby tree on instinct, pulse hammering. Nothing follows. Carefully, oh-so-carefully, he twists, peers around one side of the tree, then the other. _All clear,_ his scanners tell him. He turns back around to find the barrel of a semiautomatic leveled at his forehead. On its other end, Jaeden grins.

“Hey, Finny.”

“Oh, _fuck_ y – “

His vision goes dark, gunshot echoing in his ears, and red letters scroll across the void: **YOU ARE DEAD**. He rips his visor off and chucks it to the side, swearing, and on the other end of the mic, a chorus of voices breaks out into overlapping whoops and jeers, **GAME OVER: SQUAD B WINS** flashing in the center of the screen.

“Sucks to suck, boys,” Jaeden crows, her voice tinny and smug. Finn rakes his sweaty hair off his forehead and gives his screen the finger, even though he knows she can’t see it. The loading text blinks, sending him back to the main lobby, and the sudden wash of blue light illuminates the half-empty boxes of takeout and crumpled cans scattered around his feet. He hasn’t cleaned his apartment in weeks. All his friends are on different colonies and have no idea where he really lives, so what’s the point? He’s not trying to impress anyone. He pops the tab on a fresh beer. On the other end of the headset, Jaeden and Taz are arguing about whether or not Battlefield Elite’s cloaking devices should be nerfed, which sends Olly into another one of their rants about how the latest expansion destroyed the integrity of the game. It’s familiar at this point, a comforting sort of white noise, and he drinks his beer and scrolls through his phone, only half-paying attention until –

“Finn. Yo, Finn! You there?”

He flips his mic back down. “Yeah, sorry. Girlfriend called.”

Finn has never had a girlfriend. Mostly because he’s never been interested in women, but he’s twenty-three and never had a boyfriend, either. The whole thing sounds exhausting. Olly makes gagging noises in his ear, and everyone else chimes in with filthy suggestions and derision while Taz moans like a porn star in the background.

“Please, we know you don’t have a girlfriend. Who the hell would stoop that low?”

“Ask your mom, she sure didn’t seem to mind last night – “

“You’re all a bunch of fucking animals,” comes Kholi’s deep, disapproving rumble, cutting effortlessly through the noise. Nobody knows much of anything about Kholi, except that he’s the best player on their server and he never shows his face, always wearing a helmet or mask when he appears in-game. This hasn’t stopped Finn from jerking off to him more than once, grinding his dick into his fist while he thinks about that voice whispering dirty things in his ear. He adjusts himself, the back of his neck hot. Outside his living room window, the rest of Aurexor rises up around him, glass and neon and reinforced steel as far as the eye can see. It’s an ugly, artificially constructed world full of people living hard, artificial lives; he, at least, doesn’t try to convince himself otherwise. “Are we playing again or what? Finn, man, you’re spacing.”

“Sorry. Yeah, I’ll do one more. Gotta work early tomorrow.” He’s working the night shift tomorrow, and doesn’t need to be up until well into the afternoon. Everyone makes appropriately sympathetic noises, already selecting their weapons for the next match, and not for the first time, Finn feels a curious sense of revulsion. How gullible they all are, how trusting, in a way he never has been and never could be. It makes him angry and sad all at once for reasons he can’t name, and he scoops up his visor and slides it back on, blocking out the rest of the world.

**BEGIN.**

**\----------**

Goldwater Pharmaceuticals is Finn’s fourth job this year, and if he screws up again, he’ll be looking for a fifth – something his boss pulls him aside to remind him when he comes racing through the bay to clock in at the last second.

“I’m concerned about your attendance, Finn.” Roland Booth is the scrawniest person he’s ever met, scrawnier than Finn, with hunched shoulders and a perpetual sheen of sweat glistening on his upper lip. He wears the same tie every day and likes to put his hand on your shoulder while he lectures you, some trick he’d picked up at a middle-management seminar about ‘fostering mutual respect’. Finn loathes him. “We’ve talked about this. If you’re late one more time – “

“I know, I know. I’m sorry, Mr. Booth. I didn’t mean to cut it so close, I just ran into a delay on the transpo.” He offers this up along with his best hangdog expression, earnest and contrite, and after some hemming and hawing, Booth relents.

“Fine. I’ll let it go this time. Just be more careful in the future, okay pal?” He pats Finn’s shoulder and wanders off to micromanage someone else, and Finn breathes a sigh of relief and pulls his jumpsuit out of his locker. Any other job, he wouldn’t have bothered sucking up the way he did, but driving for Goldwater is the first decent-paying gig he’s ever had, and he’s determined to hang onto it for as long as he can. Humming, he yanks his uniform on over his clothes and zips it tight, slides his phone into his pocket, and goes to pick up his route for the night.

“Running late again, huh,” Lonnie says, voice muffled from behind the thick pane of plexiglass separating them. Finn leans against the counter and gives her his most charming smile.

“There was a jam on the transpo.”

“Sure, kid,” Lonnie says, because Lonnie can smell bullshit at ten kilometers, and types something in on her screen. On her right, the machine whirrs, then spits a little plastic card through the window, map chip warm in its center.

“Thanks, Lonnie.” Finn stuffs it into the breast pocket of his jumpsuit and winks. “You’re a doll.”

“Mhmm,” Lonnie says sourly, and hits the button mounted on the wall of the security booth. A buzzer sounds, shrill, and the door to the loading dock swings open. Finn waves at her on his way through. One of these days, he’s determined to get her to smile. She actually opened the door for him today, though, so he’ll count it as a win.

There are other downsides to being late, he’s reminded as soon as he walks in; getting stuck with the oldest truck and the shittiest route are only two of them. He curses as soon as the map pops up on the dash screen, first destination already blinking a warning in yellow, and hits the button for the ignition. The truck refuses to start three times before he finally gets it running, and he tears out of the loading bay and onto the street, engine humming into the cool dark night.

Aurexor is an old Uscax word that, loosely translated, means “neversleep”, a kind of insomnia-inducing madness. Finn thinks it fits, even though the Uscax are long gone. The colony exists in a state of near-constant activity, frenetic neon lights reflecting off the glass domes and metal spires that dominate the cityscape in pink and blue, washed over with green like a days-old bruise. At night, at least, the streets are less clogged, and he breathes a little easier, driving with the windows down and his heart lighter than it ever is during the day. He’s already started to learn some of the shortcuts that keep his drive times down, and he takes the second left on 46th St. now, down past the waterfront where the lake laps at its concrete shores. Taking 26th through the Lower Heights is faster, but he knows better – that’s gang territory, and he’s not interested in tangling with the Vulkovs or the Sisterhood or whoever the fuck is running the Heights on any given day. He sticks to the waterfront.

Somehow, he manages to be on time for his first drop, or close enough that the bored-looking night foreman doesn’t care, and after that it’s easy to fall into his usual rhythm, cruising from site to site and collecting signatures while various hands unload their various cargo, Midnight-83’s new tracks bumping from his speakers. Between stops, he picks up a couple energy drinks from the corner market and checks his phone. The group chat is blowing up, buzzing against his thigh; Battle Elite is having another Royale tournament next month, this time with a neo-cash prize. He also has a private message from Kholi, asking if Finn wants to team up with him and Jaeden. He grins all the way to his next drop, so wide it makes his cheeks hurt.

It’s kind of pathetic, he knows, crushing on someone he’s never seen and won’t ever meet, but he still lets himself get lost in a hopeful fantasy, one where he plays so well that he single-handedly wins the tournament for his squad. In it, Kholi is so impressed that he actually takes off his helmet for the first time, lets Finn see his face for the first time, and as soon as their eyes lock, there’s an undeniable connection, a _spark,_ and Finn takes that opportunity to switch to a whisper channel, so he can suggest that they take their post-victory celebration to a private chat –

“ _Dead end detected,_ ” the nav-screen barks, and he realizes he missed his turn. “ _Take a U-turn and turn right onto Seventy-Second Street.”_ Up ahead, an empty construction site towers, its machinery at rest for the night. He recognizes it as what used to be the old multiplex, before Wolfe Industries bought it out to build another manufacturing plant. At this rate, Tobias Wolfe is going to own the entirety of Aurexor before the decade’s up. Finn gives it the finger before he spins the wheel and fishtails it out of there, back the way he came. 72nd is closed for repairs, so he ends up taking the causeway down to the Arch, the singular, steel monstrosity that connects the two halves of the colony over the artificial lake that divides them. His phone vibrates again, hot against his hip.

There’s no one else on the road, late as it is, and he’s feeling optimistic, so he flips on cruise control and digs it out again, unlocking the screen. Kholi wants his input on who the rest of the squad should be, and something warm uncurls in Finn’s chest, helpless and stupid and utterly pleased. The bridge stretches empty in front of him, city lights glimmering gold in the water on either side, and he taps out a response as fast as he can, holding the steering wheel steady with his knee.

 **[2:03 AM]** not hatTrick

 **[2:03 AM]** he can’t handle losing n its fukn stressful to deal w

Kholi starts typing a response almost immediately, and entranced by the little dots bouncing on the screen, Finn doesn’t hear the approaching growl of the engine until it’s too late. A single headlight comes blazing out of the darkness, and his head snaps up just in time to see a motorcycle barreling towards him as the truck drifts over the center line.

There’s no time to think about it. He drops his phone and grabs the wheel, wrenching it into the opposite lane. In his panic, he overcorrects, and his tires squeal against the pavement as the truck spins out, ramming head-on into the barrier with a crunch. Metal screams, glass shatters, and Finn’s vision goes white as the airbag deploys, limbs jerked around by his seatbelt and the momentum like a marionette whose strings had been abruptly cut. It’s over as fast as it began. Little by little, things begin to filter back in: the absolute stillness of the night, the hiss of the busted control panel, the spiderweb of cracks across the windshield, the faint whirr of the motorcycle disappearing into the distance. Finn coughs and winces, seatbelt tight across his bruised sternum. _Asshole._

He's mostly fine, somehow. Sore and shaky with a busted lip from the airbag, but otherwise fine. He wipes the blood off his chin and unbuckles his seatbelt with unsteady hands, looking for his phone. It’s underneath the passenger seat, case scuffed but still in working condition. When he leans over to grab it, something sulfuric fills his nostrils. Smoke has started to belch from beneath the truck’s crumpled hood, thick and oily, washed out to a faded grey by the streetlight pouring down on him, and fear digs its claws into his back. He scrabbles for the door handle, but it’s jammed; he throws himself across the cabin, sweat cold under his arms, and yanks at the passenger door until it gives and sends him tumbling out into the street. He limps away as fast as he can, the joints in his left leg throbbing, and behind him, there’s a sound like a giant inhaling, air rushing in his ears. The engine catches fire.

Finn makes it to the other side of the bridge before his leg gives out. The railing catches him, and he slumps against the barrier, breath burning in his lungs. Adrenaline shivers through his veins while he watches flames lick at the windshield, glass and metal already starting to warp beneath its eager tongue. A rusty groan splits the air, and the frame collapses, one wheel popping loose. The back door pops loose, too, and the rest of his undelivered cargo tumbles out onto the pavement. In the silence of the night, the containers might as well be bombs, with how loud they land. His phone goes off.

Numb, Finn fishes it out of his pocket, clicks on the screen. He has a stack of unread messages from Kholi, one right after the other.

 **[2:04 AM]** That’s fine, Trick’s only good as a sniper and I’d rather have Sly if we can get her

 **[2:14 AM]** Alright, I asked and she said yes, now we just need two more

 **[2:15 AM]** I’m thinking Bryson and Nico. Suggestions?

 **[2:19 AM]** You still there man?

 **[2:20 AM]** Finn?

**\----------**

“Where the hell have you been?”

Booth’s voice is the first thing he hears when he hobbles back into the bay after what seems like an eternity, drenched with sweat with blisters on his feet. This is accompanied by the watch shoved under his nose, its face reading **4:52 AM** in harsh green numerals. “You were due to check in an hour ago!”

Finn stares at him. His entire head feels like it’s been stuffed with cotton. No transpos run after midnight, so he’d been forced to hike back across the city on foot, wishing he’d thought to grab at least one of his energy drinks from the truck. He’d also stopped to place an anonymous call to the authorities informing them that there was a fire on the Arch, hoping to assuage some of his guilt. It wasn’t like he’d _meant_ to get into an accident, he’d reminded himself, over and over again – that was why it was called ‘an accident’. He’d been planning to tell a carefully-curated version of the truth, had practiced it in his head on the long walk back to Goldwater, but in the face of his boss’s furious expression the words stick to his tongue, bone-dry.

“Well?” Booth demands. Gone is his soft, mealy-mouthed demeanor, his seminar-taught buzzwords and ‘effective management style’. His face is bright red, knuckles white around his clipboard and spit on his lips, and suddenly his scrawny limbs and rounded shoulders seem less laughable than they did a few hours ago. “Answer me!”

Finn would have swallowed, if he’d had any saliva left. His stomach churns. “I ran into some trouble,” he starts, and Booth’s eyes narrow.

“It’s always trouble with you, isn’t it?”

“I can explain – “

“You always have an explanation, and you know what? It’s not good enough anymore, Finn!” Booth whacks his clipboard against his free hand for emphasis. It echoes like a whipcrack in the empty bay. “You’re unreliable, you’re lazy, you’re sloppy, you’re almost always late, your locker’s disgusting…” He trails off, shaking his head, and there’s that sinking feeling in Finn’s gut again, like his stomach is about to fall into his shoes. He’s already seen that look three times that year, and he’s barely scraping by as it is. Without this job, he’s screwed. He owes a month’s worth of backpay on his rent, he’s down to the last of his prepackaged dinners, he has no savings – and even as his brain scrambles for something to fill the silence, caught like an animal in a trap, his mouth opens and he hears himself say:

“The Sisterhood carjacked me.”

Booth freezes.

“What?”

“The Sisterhood,” Finn repeats, letting a tremor seep into his voice. His heart pounds, and he uses it, lets Booth get a good long look at his shaking hands and the cut on his lip, the way he’s favoring his right side when he moves. “It was down by the waterfront, after I dropped off the Minamoto warehouse shipment. I stopped to get gas, and while I was fueling up, I saw this bike pull up behind me. I wasn’t really paying attention at first, but then I saw a few more, and...” He exhales, hugging his middle like he’s cold, and looks as pathetic as possible, pathetic enough to make a man like Booth feel powerful in the face of it. It never did take much, with men like him. “And next thing I knew, I had a gun to my head.”

“The Sisterhood.” Booth’s face has gradually faded from red to to pink to white, sweat beading at his hairline. His throat bobs. “Are you sure?”

“I don’t know any other all-female crime syndicates,” Finn says, which is true. “Do you?”

Booth looks down at his clipboard, then back at Finn, deflated. His shoulders are practically up to his ears. “I don’t – but what would,” he starts, then seems to think better of it, mouth snapping shut. Finn hears what he’s asking in the silence that hangs between them: _What would Tobias Wolfe want with Goldwater?_

“I don’t know, boss,” he mumbles, and after a moment Booth pinches the bridge of his nose and waves Finn off, all the fight drained out of him.

“Fine, fine. Just… go home. Take the rest of the week off, and don’t breathe a word of this to _anyone._ Is that clear?”

The pressure in Finn’s chest eases. “You mean I’m not – “

“One more chance, Finn,” Booth says, sounding like he regrets the words before they’ve even left his mouth. “If you screw up again, I’m pulling the plug. Got it?”

“Yes sir,” Finn babbles, caught up in a rush of genuine relief. “I won’t mess up again, I promise. I can even come back in tomorrow if you want, I’m fine to work – “

“Just go,” Booth says, disgusted again. Finn goes.

Sunrise is coming by the time he leaves Goldwater, an orange-rose sliver on the dim horizon. The public transpo will start running again any minute now, so he doesn’t have to walk all the way home, and his feet hurt and his face hurts and his head hurts but he’s wide-awake, fighting to keep the smile off his face all the way to the station. Soon the report will come in about the wrecked and ruined company truck, and Booth will file a claim with the higher ups. There will be a perfunctory internal investigation that closes almost immediately, and Goldwater will quietly eat the costs while they sweep the whole thing under the rug. Everyone remembers what happened to Anchor Industries. There wasn’t enough evidence to link Tobias Wolfe to any of it – there never is – but they all know better. No official investigation means no fingers pointing at the Sisterhood or Wolfe, which means Finn won’t be so much as a blip on their radar. It had been an impulsive lie, and a risky one, but so far, it’s working out better than anticipated. He makes it to South Central just after six, and he’s only been on the platform for a minute or two before the first car pulls in, doors hissing open to welcome him.

_Perfect._

The rest of the week passes by in a pleasant haze, one which Finn simultaneously revels in and regards with suspicion. That first day, he’d barely slept at all, plagued by nightmares of the Sisterhood showing up on his doorstep in the middle of the night. But of course that hadn’t happened, and by the second day his fears had all but faded. He spends the remainder of his vacation online, sleeping in as late as he wants and gaming with his friends, and he and Kholi finalize their team for the tournament between matches. All anyone wants to talk about is what they’d do with the money – move out of their parents’ place, buy a new gaming rig, take a three-month cruise around the Milky Way on one of those new luxury liners that were all the rage. Finn keeps quiet and lets their dreams wash over him, their anticipation, their imagined joy. None of them actually think they’ll win, he’s pretty sure, but it’s still fun to talk about. A little bit of hope goes a long way.

“What about you?” Jaeden asks, late one night, and Finn pauses, beer halfway to his lips. He’s drunk enough that he has to stop and think about it for a minute.

“What about me?”

“If we win. What are you gonna do with your share?”

“I dunno,” he says. She scoffs into her mic.

“C’mon, man. There must be something you want.”

Finn only wants one thing, and that’s a shuttle ticket off Aurexor, one-way. He’s lost count of how many times he’s dreamt about it: the shuttle window full of stars, the colony dwindling to an insignificant speck behind him, along with the remains of his old life, until it’s gone and he can step out onto the surface of his new home with only the future ahead of him, shiny and new, like Finn Holloway never existed at all.

“Haven’t really thought about it,” he says. “Maybe I’ll come take that cruise with you. We can share a cabin.”

“The fuck we can,” Jaeden says, but she’s laughing, and for one more night, everything is right in the world again.

**\----------**

On his first morning back, the day dawns bright, and Finn rolls out of bed when his first alarm goes off instead of hitting the snooze button. He’s not really a ‘singing in the shower’ type, but he hums while he washes his hair and brushes his teeth and puts on the nicest clothes he owns, tucking his shirt in so the stain at the bottom doesn’t show. He’d snagged one last chance by sheer dumb luck, and he intends to make the most of it. The door beeps when he swipes his keycard, locking his apartment behind him; when he steps into the lift, the streets rise to meet him. Six-thirty and there’s already a crowd, people hurrying along at various points in their morning commute. Finn lets himself be swept along by the current of bodies until he can slip away, onto a quiet side street that snakes around Main and past South Central. He’s on time for once, and so he lets himself amble along, basking in the sunshine on his skin. Aurexor is on the edge of the habitable zone for humans, most of its days chilly and indistinctly grey. Weather this warm is always a luxury. The light at the crosswalk urges him on, flashing red, but there’s no one coming. He’s in the middle of the road when the car glides to a stop in front of him, blocking the curb.

It’s not much, the car, sleek and black and nondescript, its engine humming whisper-soft and its windows tinted. A kind of cold certainty skitters down Finn’s spine, sends him bolting in the opposite direction, back the way he came. He doesn’t make it very far. Rough hands seize him – elbows, shoulders, the tails of his shirt – and haul him backwards, car door almost slamming on his foot. It lurches away from the curb, sending him sprawling across the seats, and another pair of hands yanks him upright. Its nails are painted pink.

“He looks like he’s gonna piss himself,” someone says, amused. “Let him go, Georgie. Don’t wanna ruin the interior.” Finn is shoved into one of the empty seats, none-too-gently, and the hands finally retreat and leave him be. His relief is, unfortunately, short-lived.

His captors are five women of various ages and skin tones, two on either side of him and one across, cradled by the spacious dark-paneled interior. Even before he sees the patches sewn onto their jackets, or the gun positioned across the lap of the woman on his left, he knows they’re part of the Sisterhood. His own words to Booth echo in his head, mocking: _I don’t know any other all-female crime syndicates, do you?_ He’s never seen a gun in real life, not up close like this. Its barrel points in his direction, gleaming. He can’t see the bullet, but he knows it’s there. He imagines it firing out of the gun, ripping a hole through his flesh, through his skull, plastering his brains and blood against the rear windshield before he even has time to beg. They probably do it all the time. He probably wouldn’t be the first person to die in this car, in this seat, shitting and pissing and bleeding and crying for their mothers – all the stuff virtual reality conveniently leaves out. He thinks he might piss himself even if they don’t kill him.

“So, Finn,” the woman across from him says. “It _is_ Finn, right? ‘cuz I gotta be honest, if we got the wrong guy, I’m gonna be real embarrassed.”

Finn recognizes her, even though he’s never met her before. Her face is all over the news, plastered far and wide across the internet; he’s seen those cold green eyes and lopsided smirk more times than he can count, same as the rest of the gang leaders that snap and snarl like stray dogs while they divide Aurexor up into territories. Like everyone else, he does his best to stay out of the way, and he’s too poor for anyone to take notice. He’d thought he could go the rest of his life without running into Sasha Vance.

“Answer the question,” the woman with the gun says, and smiles at him.

“Yeah.” He has to choke the word out, his skin crawling, his sweat sour with fear. They can probably all smell it on him. “I’m Finn.”

 _Is that what it takes for you to be honest?_ His dad asks, a distant voice from somewhere in his memories. _A gun to your head?_

“Oh, good,” Sasha says lazily. “I was worried for a second. Can’t go snatching just anybody off the street, y’know what I mean?” She’s smaller in person than she looks on the screens. With the dirty blonde hair falling into her face and her too-long sleeves covering her hands to the knuckle, she looks more like a delinquent teenager than the leader of a crime syndicate, except for the scar that runs temple to chin in a jagged pink line. “What’d you do, anyway?”

It takes Finn a minute to find his voice. “What?”

“Whatever it was, it must’ve been pretty stupid. Not every day the boss asks us to bring someone in. Usually likes me to handle it for him, if you catch my drift.” At the expression on his face, she frowns. “Woah. Are you gonna vom? Because I wouldn’t, if I were you. Boss-man just had this thing detailed.”

Her words are muffled, like she’s speaking from underwater. Maybe they are – his chest has knives in it, each breath a struggle. Maybe he’s drowning. Maybe if he throws up, they’ll do him a favor and just shoot him now. But there’s nothing in his stomach, and all he can do is stare at her, mouth opening and closing like a fish on a line until she shakes her head.

“Man, you are no fun at all. Almost makes me feel bad for you.”

Finn scents something like sympathy, grabs for it. “You could let me go,” he offers. “Say you never found me.”

Sasha’s hand strays to her hip, where there’s a flash of a holster beneath her jacket.

“I said _almost_.”

The drive lasts for ten minutes, or maybe an hour. Finn has no way to know, crammed into the backseat with the Sisterhood fencing him in on all sides and the tinted windows obscuring his view. Nobody says a word. Not until the car comes to a stop, engine purring, and the woman with the gun stirs. She’s taller than him sitting down, with close-cropped hair and broad shoulders, and she doesn’t spare him so much as a glance when she reaches over and thumps the partition. The back door swings open, and sunlight pours in, temporarily blinding him.

“Mr. Wolfe will see you now,” she says.

Finn looks at Sasha. He doesn’t know why. Maybe this is some horrible, elaborate joke, and any second now they’ll laugh and take his money and dump him on the curb, broke and terrified but free. Instead, she winks and blows him a kiss, and then there’s hands on him again, pushing him out onto the curb.

“Trust me,” she calls after him, right before the door slams shut. “You don’t wanna keep him waiting.”

**\----------**

Wolfe Industry headquarters are a behemoth born of steel and glass, climbing so high that even when Finn tilts his head back, he can’t see the top. It sits at the edge of the city, a monarch presiding over its subjects, stern and unloved but feared all the same. Finn’s familiar with it, of course, but he’d never dreamed he’d see it from the inside. Upon his delivery, he’d been escorted through security and into the elevator without preamble, its jaws snapping shut behind him. The ascent is unforgiving, and rapid; it spits him out on the penthouse floor, and he has to stagger out and sit with his head between his knees for a minute, back against the adjacent wall. Once he’s sure he’s not going to pass out or hurl all over the polished white tile, he looks up.

The office looks like something out of a movie, sleek and modern with windows in place of the westward-facing wall. Even from where he’s crouched, Finn can make out the sprawl of the city, all the way down to the gleaming blue of the waterfront. There’s not much in the way of furniture, just two chairs seated in front of the enormous desk with a view and a navy-colored rug spanning one side of the room to the other, patterned with abstract shapes in cerulean and cream. Tastefully-potted starseed plants climb up either side of the window, white-gold blossoms furled tight. Everything is decorated in shades of ivory with royal blue accents, and a water feature chimes in the center of the room, bubbling softly. Not exactly the torture chamber he’d been picturing. He gets to his feet, still braced against the wall – he’s never been good with heights – and takes a couple tentative steps forward. He doesn’t see another exit, but that doesn’t mean it’s not there. No way a guy like Tobias Wolfe doesn’t have multiple escape routes in case of emergency. He just needs to find it.

“Hello, Mr. Holloway.”

Finn hadn’t even heard the elevator. His shoe catches on the edge of the rug when he turns, and he stumbles back a few paces as the speaker steps forward, doors shutting soundlessly behind him.

If Sasha Vance is smaller than she seems on the news broadcasts, then Tobias Wolfe is the opposite – his presence alone fills the room. Finn has never seen a picture of him that wasn’t blurry, taken at a distance, or both. He takes great pains to avoid the spotlight, rarely granting interviews and leaving the day-to-day dealings and publicity to his board of directors, all of which only lends to the fevered speculation surrounding his image. The most infamous photo is one of him from the back in a full-length black coat, caught on the street with a cigarette burning between his fingers. None of this diminishes the alarm Finn feels when he first lays eyes on the man for himself, because Wolfe is beyond striking when he’s in focus. He has to be mid-forties, lean and angular with thick black hair going grey at the temples, a neatly-trimmed beard, and eyes so pale they look silver in the sunlight. His charcoal suit has been tailored to perfection, and it probably costs more than Finn makes in a year. His tie is the same royal blue as his décor, and when his gaze flickers, Finn suddenly sees himself through those unnerving eyes: his unkempt hair and patchy stubble, the shabby khakis and a plaid button-down with the sleeves rolled up, his work boots with the soles coming loose because he’d rather buy beer than replace them. His ears go hot.

“Well,” Wolfe says. “You’re exactly what I expected. Have a seat.”

The chairs are white with blue cushions on the seat and back, and surprisingly comfortable, all things considered. Finn sinks into the nearest one, watching Wolfe out of the corner of his eye. There’s a little pocket of anger simmering low in his gut, but the fear is still there too, and it’s winning. He keeps his mouth shut. Wolfe strolls past him to the alcove, which boasts a modest bar and sleek cooler. The door opens and shuts, followed by the clink of glass on wood. “Drink?” Finn doesn’t answer, bafflement temporarily robbing him of speech, and Wolfe’s gaze slides to him, a pitcher of water in hand. It hovers above the second glass. “I asked you a question, Mr. Holloway.”

“No,” Finn stammers, stomach lurching unpleasantly. “Thanks.”

Wolfe pours himself a glass. Liquid ripples when he sets it down, eyes boring into Finn’s.

“It’s fascinating,” he says, “what people will do in moments of desperation.”

Is he supposed to respond, Finn wonders? He doesn’t know. Wolfe drinks his water, wets his lips. He never once takes his eyes off Finn.

“Despite what you’ve undoubtedly read about me, I’m a legitimate businessman.” He has a surprisingly pleasant voice, deep and soothing, but Finn knows better. He’s heard that same polished cadence in his own words a thousand times. It’s the voice of a seasoned liar. “And even if I weren’t, I have no use for a second-rate pharmaceutical company. I deal in property, not medicine.” He sets the now-empty glass aside. “So, I’m sure you can imagine my surprise when I was informed of my alleged involvement in the theft and destruction of Goldwater property. A strange thing, considering I was visiting with an old friend on the evening in question and have an airtight alibi.” If his eyes were cold before, they’re dead now, devoid of emotion. “If you have a defense, I suggest you offer it now.”

“Legitimate businessmen don’t kidnap people off the streets,” Finn says. He means it as a challenge, but it comes out reedy, too thin in the ensuing silence. Wolfe's lips twitch.

“No,” he says softly. “I suppose they don’t.”

Finn’s fingers hurt from where the arm of the chair digs into them, knuckles bulging white against the skin. He’s aware on some level that he’s still afraid, but all his senses have surpassed fear to congeal into a misty gray numbness, brain whirring like a broken fan. His mouth opens of its own accord. He hears himself ask, “Are you going to kill me?”

“I’ve learned a lot about you this past week,” Wolf says, ignoring the question. “More, I expect, than you would have liked me to know.” Finn’s sweating now, feverish, shirt clinging to his damp sides, nostrils flaring as he struggles to control his breathing. “Would you like to know what I found out?”

“Oh god.” It comes out as a whimper. “Please don’t kill me. Please – “

“Be quiet,” Wolfe growls, eyes blazing, and Finn’s mouth snaps shut. “I could kill you right now and not a soul would miss you, you sniveling brat. Did you honestly think you wouldn’t get caught? That you’d get away with this?” He’s notoriously composed in his rare public appearances, never rising to bait or raising his voice above a murmur, but he’s snarling now, his face twisted into something grotesque. “You’re a nobody. You’re _nothing._ I could slit your throat myself and dump you down by the waterfront in broad daylight and it would be old news within a day.” He raises a hand, and Finn folds into himself, but all Wolfe does is adjust his tie. A few strands of hair had come loose from their neat coif during his outburst, and he smooths them back into place, taking a deep, shaky breath. Then, he exhales, and his composure returns, the consummate businessman once more. There’s a little control panel on his desk, composed of three different buttons. When he presses the top one, the intercom clicks on.

“Yes, Mr. Wolfe?” a robotic voice intones.

“Postpone my meeting with Tessori and Valentine. See if you can reschedule it for three.”

“Yes, Mr. Wolfe. Right away.” The intercom clicks off.

“Luckily for you, I may have some use for a liar yet,” Wolfe says, not looking at him. He’s staring out the window, across the waterfront. “Especially a poor, desperate liar who would very much like to leave this office in one piece.” His tone shifts into something softer, almost cajoling. “You _do_ want to leave this office in one piece, don’t you?”

Finn nods, frantic, damp palms bleeding through his khakis. He can still get out of this. He just has to make it through the rest of this meeting alive, and he’s good at surviving, surviving is what he does, he just has to walk out those doors and he’ll be okay –

“As I was saying before, I learned a lot about you, Finn.” Still soft. Still coaxing. “An orphan with no real future, trapped on Aurexor with no way out. Such a sad story for someone so young, don’t you think?”

“I’m not an orphan.”

“A dead mother, a father who won’t acknowledge your existence… you might as well be.” Wolfe fixes his cufflinks, brushes an imaginary speck of dirt off his sleeve. “Sasha Vance is an orphan too, you know. Another young life rotting away in the gutter, until I gave her and her Sisters a second chance.” He looks up, and his strange, colorless eyes skewer Finn to his seat. “All you have to do is make your transgression up to me, and I can do the same for you.”

The trap looms, jaws wide; the snare dangles. Finn chews his lip.

“What do I have to do?”

_Snap._

“Oh, we’ll get to that soon enough,” Wolfe says, and presses the center button on the control panel. Metal cuffs unfold from the arms and legs of Finn’s chair and clamp around his wrists and ankles before he can so much as flinch, locking him in place. There’s no time to run, or to fight back – he’s free one second and immobilized the next. Panic gnaws at his bones.

“What are you doing?” His voice shakes, high-pitched when he thrashes, tugging as his bonds. “What the fuck is this?”

“There are consequences to our actions, Finn,” Wolfe says, moving around the desk. “To the things we say and do. Something tells me you’ve avoided most of those consequences until now.” Finn squirms, jerks, tries to scoot away, but the chair won’t budge. To his growing horror, he can see there’s a bulge growing in those charcoal-grey slacks, and Wolfe reaches down and cups it, adjusting himself. “You slandered my name, and now, you’ll make it up to me. But first…” He lets the word hang in the air between them. With a flick of his wrist, his belt comes undone. “You owe me an apology.”

“Wait, just – wait, hold on,” Finn pleads, still numb, because this has to be some kind of fucked-up dream or VR malfunction or something. There’s no way this is actually happening. He’s going to wake up any second. “I didn’t mean to cause trouble, I swear, I just – “

“No, of course not. You only meant to get yourself out of it.” There’s a cruel little smile on Wolfe’s face when he reaches out and cups Finn’s cheek, thumb stroking his lower lip in a parody of a lover’s caress. It’s been a long time since someone touched him. He has to will himself not to lean into it. Then, without warning, Wolfe’s fingers dig into the hinge of his jaw, thumb in the corner of his mouth, and he grunts in pain as his lips are pried apart. Rough fingers invade his mouth, pressing down, stroking his tongue. He sputters and gags in their wake, and Wolfe wipes them off on his face, smearing spit across his cheek and chin. “Good enough.”

“Wait – “

“Bite me and I’ll break your jaw,” Wolfe says, and unzips his slacks.

“Please,” Finn croaks. Still-damp fingers fist his hair.

“Open your mouth.”

Finn has given a total of two blowjobs in his life. One was to his former best friend, and the other was to the president of his high school’s student council, after hours in the coat closet. Neither had amounted to more than awkward teenaged fumbling, though he’d been too curious – and horny – at the time to really care. He hadn’t even really looked at them. They were more worried about getting caught than anything else. This is nothing like that. Wolfe’s dick is huge, thick in his hand, the head nudging Finn’s lips and chin as he strokes himself. No, Finn realizes, dread sitting heavy in the pit of his stomach, Wolfe has no intention of making this quick or easy. He wants it to last. As if he can read Finn’s mind, Wolfe slides his hand to the base of his dick and guides the first inch or two into Finn’s mouth, the tip slick and salty-bitter.

“Suck.”

He just has to do it. Get it over with. He wraps his lips around it and sucks clumsily, keeping his teeth out of the way. It’s horrible, it’s not what he wants, but it’s still a dick in his mouth and a long time since he’s had anything even remotely resembling sex, and to his utter humiliation, his own dick twitches against his thigh. No. _No._ Fuck this, he is not going to get hard when he’s being – being _forced_ to do this, to endure this. He’s _not_. Thick fingers tighten in his hair, sending a jolt of pain through his scalp, and he gags as it slides deeper.

“I said suck,” Wolfe rumbles above him. His cock doesn’t quite hit the back of Finn’s throat before he pulls back, but it’s close, and Finn shudders and tries to swallow around it, a guttural noise echoing in his chest. He sucks on the head, breathing hard through his nose. Wolfe doesn’t move, doesn’t give him any indication that he’s making progress, but his grip loosens slightly on Finn’s hair. There’s already spit gathering at the corners of Finn’s mouth, tacky on his lips. He tries to ignore it, tonguing the underside of Wolfe’s dick. The cuffs are unforgiving, digging into his wrists. He ignores those, too. The sooner he gets the guy off, the sooner this will be over. Wolfe’s hand slides down to cup his neck, crowding in. He smells sharp and musky and his cock is heavy on Finn’s tongue, thick enough to stretch his mouth wider than what's comfortable. Finn gags again, throat working, but Wolfe doesn’t pull back. Just holds him there, hand hot at his nape. “Better,” he murmurs. “Finally, you do something worthwhile with that mouth.”

Finn squirms, hot and sweaty and furious, his dick half-hard. Wolfe’s cock makes a sloppy-wet noise when he pulls it free, leaving Finn to splutter and gasp, eyes watering. His mouth tastes like sweat and salt. The head rubs against his lips, his chin, his cheek before plunging in again, and it’s all he can do to just breathe while Wolfe fucks his face, easy, shallow strokes that make his jaw burn with the effort of keeping it open. Treats him like a toy, like Finn’s just some warm, wet hole to stick his dick in, and he probably is, as far as Tobias Wolfe is concerned. He just wants to prove that he can. Finn’s stomach hurts, cramped with loathing. Spit drips onto his shirt, and he has no choice but to let it. Wolfe’s dick slips free once more, leaves him panting.

“Maybe I’ll keep you after all.” He sounds almost contemplative, and a shiver crawls down Finn’s spine. “Keep you here in this chair, in my office. What do you think? How long would it take for anyone to notice you’ve gone missing?” The flushed tip of his cock bobs in Finn’s face. “Days? Weeks? A month?”

“Fuck you,” Finn rasps, and Wolfe chuckles. He looks genuinely amused for a second, eyes crinkling at the corners. Then, without warning, he backhands him.

It hurts all the more for being unexpected, and Finn’s head spins, cheek stinging. Fingers curl in his hair, yanking him forward so he strains in his bonds, and he barely has time to yelp in pain before Wolfe shoves his cock all the way back in, down to the hilt. There’s nothing easy about it this time. It’s hard and sloppy and relentless; he rams his cock down Finn’s throat at a brutal pace, fucking him until Finn is gagging and shaking, spit running down his chin and humiliated tears burning in his eyes. There’s nothing he can do, nothing _to_ do except endure it and ache for an end. His dick is harder than ever. A few tears scorch their way down his cheeks. Wolfe slows long enough to wipe them away with his thumb.

“Poor boy,” he says, voice gone hoarse, throbbing against Finn’s tongue. He _likes_ that Finn is crying. He rubs the rest away with his palm. “You’re almost pretty when you look at me that way.” More tears fall. Wolfe fucks him harder. He’s been mostly silent throughout the whole thing, but now his breaths are rougher, coming quick, and his hands are like a vice on Finn’s head. Wet, obscene sounds fill the office, echoing off the walls until it’s the only thing Finn can hear – his mouth, Wolfe’s harsh breathing, and his own heartbeat.

It goes on for what feels like forever. Finn has no way of knowing how long it’s actually been. The muscles in his neck and jaw are screaming, burning with the effort of being forced into the same position for so long. His hair is matted to his forehead and his face is still wet with tears and sweat and snot and spit all at once, dripping off his chin and onto his clothes. He’d tried to pretend it was Kholi at one point, just to get through it, but that only made things worse. Kholi wouldn’t do this to him. Maybe he’d like it, if it was Kholi, but it isn’t and he doesn’t, no matter what fucked-up signals his dick has gotten crossed. He keeps getting hard and then softening a few seconds later, like his body can’t decide if he’s turned on or not, and he’s not, he’s not turned on by this, he doesn’t want this, but it doesn’t stop him from letting out an involuntary moan around Wolfe when he shifts in his seat and his pants rub against the head of his dick, fabric pulled tight. He keeps his eyes screwed shut, refusing to look at Wolfe. He doesn’t want to see what’s looking back.

“Open your eyes,” Wolfe grunts, because of course he won’t let Finn have even that, won’t let him keep even that last shred of dignity, and Finn can’t shake his head with a dick halfway down his throat but he keeps his eyes shut tight, pulse hammering madly in the side of his neck. Wolfe mutters something he doesn’t catch and lets go of Finn with one hand, and then his big, blunt fingers are groping Finn’s chest through his shirt until they find the top button, popping it loose. He finds Finn’s nipple and pinches it between his thumb and forefinger, rubbing it with the pad of his finger, then twists viciously.

Finn’s eyes fly open, a garbled whimper bubbling up in his throat, and as soon as their gazes meet – his own wide with shock and pain, red-rimmed and wet, locked with calm, icy blue – Wolfe shoves him flush against the chair and comes down his throat with a soft, satisfied groan. It floods Finn’s mouth, hot and bitter, and he gulps and gags and coughs to no avail. Wolfe makes sure he swallows every last drop. When he finally pulls his softening length out of Finn’s mouth, thin strands of spit and come cling to his lips, connecting them until Wolfe pulls a handkerchief out of his pocket and wipes himself clean, then tucks his dick away. Aside from the slight flush of his cheeks and the hank of hair falling across his forehead, he looks perfectly composed; he could walk out of his office like nothing had happened with no one the wiser.

Finn pants, each breath scraping his raw throat. He’s filthy and everything hurts – his face, his jaw, his scalp – and his skin is hot, so hot he feels like he might combust. His dick is as hard as it’s ever been, bulging against the crotch of his khakis between his spread thighs, and that sends a fresh wave of humiliation washing over him as Wolfe looks him over, eyes lingering on his erection. He coughs, winces, coughs again. Wolfe crumples up the handkerchief and tosses it on his desk, next to the control panel.

“I expect to see you back here tomorrow evening. Ten PM sharp.” He’s not even breathing hard anymore. “Go to Goldwater when you leave here, after you’ve cleaned yourself up. Do whatever is necessary to keep your job.” Finn stares up at him, uncomprehending. He stares back, eyes dark and eerily calm. “I don’t like repeating myself, Finn. Retain your job through whatever means necessary. You’re scheduled to deliver a large shipment of raw material to the Metavolution plant tomorrow night, and you will. After you’ve brought it to me.” His lips twitch. “The Sisterhood has assured me they know some… interesting uses for pharmaceuticals that I had yet to consider.”

“You can’t,” Finn whispers.

“Ten PM,” Wolfe says. “I suggest you be here.”

“You – I can’t. I can’t d – I’ll tell him.” Finn struggles to sit up a little straighter, forces himself to look Wolfe in the eyes. “I’ll tell my boss what you asked me to do.”

It’s a bluff. A wild, dangerous, hopeless bluff and they both know it, Finn’s heart sinking as a smile spreads across Wolfe’s face. It’s the most terrifying thing he’s ever seen. He shrinks into his seat as Wolfe moves forward, and with a gentle hand, lifts his chin and leans in so their lips are almost touching, close enough that he could kiss Finn – or bite out his tongue. His teeth are sharp and very, very white.

"Go ahead," he murmurs. “I’m sure he’ll believe you.”


End file.
